


Prototype

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Fucking Machines, Masturbation, No Plot/Plotless, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Robot Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-14 21:02:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11216214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Spanner can feel his heart picking up speed just from looking at his creation, can hear his breathing catching in his throat with a heat he doesn’t even try to restrain, and when the adrenaline in his veins purrs into the beginnings of desire, uncoiling out into him like electricity stretching itself awake, Spanner doesn’t try to repress it." Spanner builds himself a new toy and entertains himself testing it.





	Prototype

“There,” Spanner sighs, a smile tugging at his lips as he leans back from the object in front of him and reaches to push his goggles up off his face to settle somewhere around the top of his head. “Finally.” There’s no one else to hear him -- there almost never is, in the privacy of his own lab -- but he’s not offering the words for an audience as much as for himself, as a means to punctuate the conclusion of long, uncounted hours of work. “It’s done.”

It’s a beautiful creation. Spanner appreciates the elegance of the design as much as the actual goal of the machine itself, as a means to an end he has yet to test to his own satisfaction. But if nothing else it is a pleasure to look at, all sleek metal and shining curves and carefully aligned gears and motors, fit together with all the skill that Spanner has honed over the last several years. Spanner can feel his heart picking up speed just from looking at his creation, can hear his breathing catching in his throat with a heat he doesn’t even try to restrain, and when the adrenaline in his veins purrs into the beginnings of desire and uncoils out into him like electricity stretching itself awake, Spanner doesn’t try to repress it.

He has to test his new invention, after all.

It’s easy to strip his clothes off. His coveralls are simple in design, more a basic means to cover his body than anything more fashionable; Spanner isn’t one to mistake trifles for necessities, in clothing as much as anything else. The zipper down the front does what it needs to, in loosening his clothes as rapidly as it holds them in place, and his boots are only minimally more complicated to unlace and tug off his feet. He kicks his coveralls off and out of the way, freeing his legs and feet from the tangling weight as part of the same motion, and then he’s free of the greater part of his clothing. He still has on the thin of his t-shirt and the heavier weight of his socks, not the mention the loose fall of his boxers around his hips; but those he can work around, he doesn’t even really have to bother with stripping them off for the purposes of his endgoal. All he really has to do is push the elastic of his waistband down and off his hips, easing the catch against his skin to slide over his thighs instead, and then he has all the freedom he needs.

Lubrication is a simple issue, one Spanner long ago solved for himself. He has a liquid of his own design, something slick and clinging that keeps skin slippery for as long as he’s ever made an attempt to test it. It had been intended originally as a lubrication for machinery, and in that it failed -- the wet of it slips right off metal, even as it catches slick to any suggestion of skin near it -- but the same aspect that makes metal so impervious to the lubrication’s effect is a bonus rather than a flaw, under the circumstances. Spanner slicks his fingers with the stuff, careful not to use too much -- he left himself unable to gain traction on the floor of his laboratory the last time he went overboard -- before he carefully replaces the lid and sets the bottle aside so he can reach down between the open angle of his thighs.

He’s businesslike about the process. There’s nothing particularly scintillating about the fact of his fingers sliding into the heat of his body to press open the tension of his entrance, to ease himself wider for the deliberate force of his touch; this is just a necessity, another part of the preparation process he hasn’t yet figured out how to work around. Maybe someday he’ll work it out, he thinks idly as he fingers himself open, his cock half-hard more from anticipation of what is to come than from the present-moment sensation; surely there must be a way to automate this process, to make it as easy as pressing a button and letting the efficiency of machinery take over. But that’s another project, something to be taken on at some future date; first he has to test his first round of invention, has to verify the efficacy of his initial foray into automated satisfaction.

It only takes a few minutes. Spanner is used to this, at least, even if his manual experimentation has proven more frustrating than satisfying in the past; but the initial preparation is straightforward enough, a matter of easing himself into the now-familiar strain of first one and then a second finger, of breathing through the initial discomfort until he can stroke into himself without difficulty, until he can angle his fingers apart to stretch himself wider even than two digits together will give him. It’s straightforward, something he can do while his mind is elsewhere, while he is occupied with thinking through the details of what is to come and the hoped-for satisfaction he expects to attain; and then he takes a hard thrust into himself, the most he can manage with the non-ideal angle of his hand between his legs, and decides that he’s as ready now as he’s ever likely to be.

It takes some effort to get himself into position. He’s built the machine to his specifications, of course -- it has a single function, it hardly makes sense to attempt to generalize its effect -- but even so it’s a moment before he has his legs at the right angle, before he’s worked himself back into a position against the floor that doesn’t scratch and tear at the skin of his bare knees. Perhaps he ought to think about a cushion of some sort, next time, he thinks vaguely, or the addition of some kind of straps for his ankles to let himself better align his body with the promise of the machine behind him; but the thoughts are distant, idle considerations for a hypothetical future, and right now he’s too impatient to bother with anything more than a careful positioning of his knees against the hard floor beneath him. He fits his legs around the weight of the machine, rocks his hips back against the cool smooth of it; and then he’s ready, and there’s nothing left to do but to reach for the remote alongside him and fit his thumb against the _on_ button. He’s trembling, he realizes as he reaches for the remote, as he watches his fingers shake gently against the elegant lines of the metal under his grip; but it’s a tiny thing, a thrum of unfamiliar adrenaline more than anything else, and it’s hardly enough to interfere with the weight of his thumb against the button to activate the machine behind him.

It moves immediately. Spanner’s not startled; he’s the one who built it that way, after all, it’s designed to waste no time at all in humming to life behind him. But regardless of what he expects, there’s an impossible distance between hypothetical design and actual effect, and in the first moment of the smooth metal shaft breaching the tension of his body Spanner surprises himself with the moan that breaks from his lips, the immediate response to heat that surges out to fill him as quickly as the thrust of his machine does. It’s a graceful movement, the slide of the smooth-polished metal rocking forward to press into the wet slick of his body, and Spanner can feel himself answering the motion as gracefully, can feel his whole body tensing into a surge of heat as if a wave is breaking through him from the force of the machine behind him. He clenches down hard against the stretch, every muscle in him contracting against the breadth of the metal rod; and the machine slides back, as calmly uncaring about his reaction as it is in the rhythmic forward thrust it takes again. Spanner can feel the pressure working inside him, the cool of the machine’s shaft sliding deep and then drawing back, and at his stomach his cock is achingly hard, jumping to full arousal with the first slick stroke of the machine into him.

“ _Oh_ ,” he gasps, startled even in himself by the immediacy of his reaction; and he braces the heel of his hand against the floor, supporting his weight against his arm while his fingertips hover over the remaining as-yet-untouched buttons on the remote. The action leaves his other hand free, gives him the dexterity to reach down to his hips and close his hand around himself; and the machine keeps moving, its steady rhythm wholly unaffected by the gasp of Spanner’s breathing or the reflexive tension that ripples through his body or the groan in his throat as he strokes up over himself. It just keeps moving, rocking into him and sliding back out with mindless, preprogrammed grace, and Spanner can feel himself going hotter with every thrust it takes, with every unhesitating motion into him. He settles his hand into a similar rhythm, attempting vaguely to match the machine’s steady pattern; but there’s variance to the stroke of his hand, reflexive tension in his fingers that tightens and eases with each surge of arousal that runs through him. It’s imperfect, to be sure -- some part of his mind is already thinking of improvements, of some way to hand the whole process over to the control of the remote so he can surrender himself to the methodical ministrations of what device he next builds -- but right now it hardly makes a difference, not when he has that steady rhythm to frame himself around even with the jerky motion of his hand.

He can feel himself going hotter. His cock is twitching in his grip, the head going slick with pre-come as his fingers tighten and stroke over himself; but it’s the pressure within him stirring him to such heat, the knowledge that without pressing the buttons at the remote that that movement won’t hesitate, won’t fail, won’t so much as stutter in its rhythm. The idea alone is enough to tighten Spanner’s breathing, to draw his balls up taut with pleasure; and when he braces his fingers at the remote it’s not to stop the motion. He pushes the buttons firmly, certain in the instruction he is giving to his device; and behind him there’s a _click_ of machinery settling into place, the whir of a motor speeding, and inside him a burst of motion, the wet sound of the shaft of the machine delving deep into his body, and Spanner hears himself moan, feels his whole body convulse with the sudden pressure. The machine is going too far, it’s pressing too deep; but of course he’s set it to rigorous parameters, ensured the depth will be safe regardless of what controls he presses, and when the weight inside him draws back Spanner feels the heat of a moan at his lips, a sound as if of loss as it slides out of him. His hand tightens on his cock, his grip pulls hard; and the machine drives forward again, pumping into him on the force of the engine he built for it, and Spanner’s whole body shudders, his head tipping back as he groans deep in his chest with the force.

He can feel the rod working inside him, drawing back and pressing forward with what seems near-endless depth; it’s stroking against the inner walls of his body with all the cool distance of metal, with all the perfect elegance of machinery. Spanner can shudder around it as much as he likes, can tense and flex himself in pursuit of more without the least reaction from the machine behind him; and he can push at the buttons under his fingers, can urge the shaft to move faster, to work harder into him. His head is ducking forward, his shoulders are curling in; under his grip his cock is aching with heat, the head swollen dark even under the rough pull of his fingers. His other hand is still at the remote, working through the different settings he has built into this machine: speed, depth, more, urging it to more friction and more heat and more depth, until Spanner is shaking with every forward motion the merciless metal within him takes. He’s quivering, his whole body winding itself tight around the pressure inside him; and then he presses a button, and the thrusting angles up, twisting to rotate within him like it’s tracing out a pattern inside his body. The weight presses deep, gyrating deep into the heat of his body; and Spanner convulses and comes in a rush, spurting hot pleasure all over his fingers and the cool of the floor beneath him. Even as he comes the machine keeps working, pumping into him like it’s working to draw every pulse of pleasure up and out of the ache of his cock, and Spanner keeps coming, spasming in helpless waves of heat around his machine until he’s coming dry, until there’s nothing to accompany each jolt of pleasure but the quivering twitch of his cock in his hand. He wonders dizzily if he could drive himself to unconsciousness, wonders how long he could keep himself coming before he passed out from the exertion of it; but this isn’t the time to find out, not when this was only intended as a test run. He shudders through a last wave of sensation, feels his whole body seizing tight around the shaft working deep inside him; and then he presses the button on his remote, and lets the movement of the machine still.

For a long time he stays where he is: on his knees, in front of his latest invention, gasping for air while his come dries sticky on the floor beneath him. Finally he lifts his head to blink at the remote under his fingers, to clear his vision enough that he can push the button to draw the shaft within him back and free of his body. The movement makes him shudder again, pulls the air from his lungs as surely as it pulls the metal from inside him; but then it’s done, and Spanner is left half-dressed, kneeling on the floor of his laboratory with his boxers around his knees, his hand braced on a remote, and his whole body tingling with the full-body ache of too much pleasure. Finally he takes a breath, and lowers both hands flat to the floor, and lets himself rock back over the support of his heels to take the pressure off his aching knees.

“Well,” he says, his voice a little weak but clear to hear in the quiet of his laboratory. “That went well.”

He can’t wait until his hands are steady enough that he can start on his next round of improvements.


End file.
